“Oh she’s ready to go, alright,” Hattie mumbles under her breath. I catch a slight twitch in her lips before she disappears down the back of the house.
“Hurry up, Annabelle!” I call out, anxious to leave. “The stables are expecting us.”
Annabelle’s mare is kept at Mallory Ranch and Stables. Our parents actively encourage extracurricular activities, like horseback riding alongside her ballet. She’s undertaking equestrian jumping, a second language, and deportment lessons. It all sounds good in theory, but it leaves me sick inside. My sister is outspoken with a bright, happy spirit, yet they’re slowly breaking it down and grooming her as a future trophy wife.
“I’m coming! Hold your horses,” she replies with a snorting giggle.
Moments later she’s making her way down the stairs, her back straight, chin high, and hand trailing the banister like a beauty queen entrance. My mouth falls open. It’s not the blouse, jodhpurs, and riding boots that capture my attention. It’s her face. It’s a festival of color.
Her mouth cracks a bright, practiced smile. The move showers her outfit in a rainbow of glitter dust. My lips press together. Do not laugh. Do not fucking laugh.
“Wow, Moo Moo.” I scratch at my chin as I stare, at a complete loss. “Are we off to Mardi Gras or something?”
I shouldn’t have said that. Annabelle falters, her bottom lip aquiver. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s um …” I clear my throat. “Aren’t you a little young for makeup?”
She huffs. In no way deterred, she pushes off the bottom step and collects her bag from the entryway table. “You sound like Mom.”
“You used mom’s stuff?”
Annabelle’s grin is one of satisfaction. It means she left behind a mess big enough to cause grief. “Yep.”
My keys jingle as I pluck them from my pocket. Insisting Annabelle wash her face will only make her heels dig in further. “Do you have a death wish?”
“Don’t be dramatic.” She rolls sparkle-encrusted eyes as we leave, calling out a quick goodbye to Hattie before I pull the door shut behind us. “She won’t kill me. She might poop a brick though.”
I beep the locks. “Poop a brick?”
“Yeah, you know,” she says as we both climb in the car. “Hershey squirt.”
My mouth falls open. “Hershey what?”
“Freak out! It means freak out.” Annabelle shakes her head as I back out the drive. “You need to get with the lingo. You sound like old man Lewis.”
“Don’t call him old man Lewis.”
“Why not?” she shoots back.
“Because it’s impolite.”
We drive past our aforementioned neighbor. He’s busy blowing grass clippings off his driveway. With the wind picking up, it pushes them across to my parents’ lawn. A check of my rear view mirror tells me the old man is pretty pleased about that.
“You call him old man Lewis.”
I glance across at my sister. “Because I’m a disrespectful college kid. You don’t want to be like me.”
Annabelle is unusually quiet on the forty-minute drive to the stables. It’s unnerving. When we arrive at the property and select a trail, she’s still mute. Riding out side-by-side, I glance across at her. She’s chewing her lip, worrying off the red lipstick that’s too old for her young face. Whatever is on her mind, it will build up and explode if it doesn’t come out soon.
“How’s school?”
Her voice is curt. “Good.”
“And your friends? Rachel?”
“Good.”
“Hell,” I mumble under my breath. It has to be boys, which perhaps explains the attempt at makeup. How do I broach that topic? I’m not the freaking parent here.
“Is anyone bullying you?” Because little boys can be dicks when they like a girl.
I wince behind my sunglasses. Last night proves it doesn’t change as they get older. They just grow into bigger dicks.
“… my older brother.”
I miss Annabelle’s reply. “Sorry?”
“I said,” she enunciates louder, “that no one would dare bully me. Not with the Great Brody Madden being my older brother.”
The Great Brody Madden. I snort at the ridiculous term, but inside it worries me. Public perception can change at the drop of a hat. You play a good game, you become a god. You play a bad one, you get raked over the coals—so do those close to you.
My hands tighten on the reins. “You’ll tell me if that changes, right?”
“Yes, Brody.” She rolls her eyes and glitter mists the air. “I’ll let you know if you stop being great.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. I’m being serious here. I don’t want anyone bullying you if I have a bad game.”
“No one is being mean to me,” she snaps.
We reach the halfway mark of our trail ride, and I’m yet to unearth the issue. Granted, I haven’t dug far but she’s eight. If it’s not school, friends, or boys, what else could it be?
“Moo Moo …” I start and sigh. My horse snorts loud beneath me, no doubt feeling my frustration.
“Do you have a nickname for her too?”
“Do I what?”
Annabelle’s eyes drop to her reins and her bottom lip pokes out. I brace accordingly and the little bomb she drops doesn’t disappoint.
“For your girlfriend.” Her voice is small, like she’s trying to stop the hurt coming out. It might as well be a shout. My throbbing hangover reaches new heights. “The one you never told me about.”
Hell. It was never my intention to keep Jordan from Annabelle, but Jordan is mine—just like football is. Something just for me. Jordan and football on one hand, family and its drama and responsibility on the other—a subconscious division.
“How did you know?”
Our dad enforces a blanket ban on social media and ESPN.
“Rachel’s dad,” she answers.
Of course. Her friend’s father is a zealous fan. Phil watches sports religiously. All kinds. He’s a big guy, brash and rough, but also warm and lighthearted. On the several occasions I’ve met him he’s spouted detailed opinions on my recent games. While I don’t take his unqualified advice on board, it only makes my father’s lack of interest sharper.
“They had ESPN on,” she adds. “There was a special on the upcoming draft.”
“And you watched it?” They listed me as a first round draft prediction. They also delved into my personal life, broadcasting a dynamic little slide show of Jordan and me together. Funny photos lifted from Facebook. Us leaving Eastside Cafe holding hands. That kiss on the soccer field right before Jordan’s game.
“Yeah I watched it. Jordan Elliott.” She clucks her tongue, urging her horse into a fast clip. “Sounds like a boy’s name.”
“Be nice,” I snap, catching up to her.
“Why should I? You’re keeping stuff from me. Did you know she’s poor?”
“What?”
“Dad did a background check.”
Hot and cold chills prickle my skin. “He what?”
“You heard me. Do you think she’s after your future millions?”
“Do I … No! Dammit, Annabelle. You’re being ridiculous.”
She reins in her horse, her glare blistering my skin. “And you’re being a tool.”
We’ve reached a standoff. Both horses rest on the trail, tails twitching as they sense our combined aggravation. I stifle a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Jordan. It’s a little complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Annabelle digs her heels in. It seems we’re not moving until this gets hashed out.
“Jordan believed in me.” It’s not until I say the words out loud that I realize how good that belief made me feel.
Her chin juts out. “And I don’t?”
“I know you do, Annabelle. It’s just …” I wanted her to always believe in me.
“You know how Mom and Dad are. How they see me. I wanted to keep Jordan away from that. From their hatefu
l words and their constant disappointment. I don’t want her to see me the way they do.”
“I don’t hate you.” A little yellow butterfly flitters between us. Her eyes catch on it and hold, following it until it disappears behind a tree. When her eyes return to mine, they’re wide and childlike. “And I’m pretty like she is too, right?”
The reason for her painted face becomes clear. “Is that why you’re wearing makeup, sweetheart? You think if you put all that stuff on your face people will like you more?”
Her chin juts out further. “Rachel says you’re gonna ditch me now you have a girlfriend.”
I stifle a deep, disgusted sigh and hold her gaze, my words firm. “I’m not going to ditch you, Annabelle.”
Her brows rise, unconvinced.
How am I supposed to undo years of damage my mother has caused in just a few minutes? Jordan would know what to say. A master of the right words at just the right moment, she would be good for Annabelle. The perfect role model.
Hearing voices and hoof clops coming up behind us, I take both reins and cluck the horses. We begin moving again.
“Jordan doesn’t wear makeup.” Not often, at least.
I glance at my sister. Her eyes are fixed ahead, but her shoulders straighten. She’s listening.
I forge ahead. “She reminds me of you. Jordan speaks her mind. She’s smart and intuitive. Whenever a subject gets too stressful, she cracks a joke, making everything lighter. We both like sports and talking about it and playing it. She’s so talented with a soccer ball, Moo Moo. When I watch her play …” I get lost in her. Completely and utterly lost. And when I think of all the time she spent on me when she could’ve been training, it feels squandered. A wasted effort. Yet I wouldn’t take back a minute of it. “She has a big smile and an even bigger heart, and I like being with her because of that, not because of what she puts on her face.”
That’s it. I’ve got nothing else.
“Are you going to marry her?”
I almost laugh out of shock, but Annabelle’s expression is solemn. My lips press together. I’ve thought about it. I know I want Jordan in my future, but the driving need to prove myself overshadows everything and I can’t make it stop.
“No, sweetheart.” My denial weights me like an anchor. “I’m not.”
We finish our ride and head home. Another wave of glitter decorates the atmosphere when Annabelle gets out of the car. “Are you going to wash that stuff off your face now?”
My sister’s lips twitch. “I don’t know. I think Mom should see it first.”
“I’m not sure that’s smart.” Pocketing my keys, I follow her up the porch.
“Smart is for nerds. I’m a lady in progress.”
My voice is stern. “Annabelle.”
She grins. “Kidding!”
I fold my sister in a hug, picking her up. Our size difference is almost comical. Her feet leave the ground and bump my knees. Bony little arms wrap around my neck, squeezing tight. Mother of god, she is so fucking precious it makes me ache.
“I love you, Moo Moo. Don’t let them change you, okay?”
Putting her back down, I placed my hand on her back and propel her inside the house. I follow behind. Annabelle’s eyes flare wide. “What are you doing?”
My steps are stilted, my voice tight. “I’m walking you inside.”
“You should go, Brody.”
“It’ll be fine,” I lie. “Just run upstairs and wash your face, okay?”
“Annabelle?” Our father’s voice is empty and devoid of warmth, even for his own daughter. “Is that you?”
“Brody,” she whispers, but I can’t placate her now. Fury is building quickly, making me shake.
“Go!”
She jogs up the stairs, her thin little legs carrying her quickly away. Moments later my father appears in the entryway, the click of his polished shoes loud in the silence. Each deliberate step grates on my ears. His suit jacket remains in place, his tie a perfect Windsor knot that I’ve never managed to master.
His nostrils flare, the only indication of his displeasure at my presence. “Son.”
My father’s displeasure means nothing. I’m not here to ruffle his perfectly aligned feathers. I’m here to rip the fuckers out. My voice comes out somewhere between a growl and a hiss.
“You motherfucker.”
He halts in front of me, brown eyes the same as mine narrow. I’ve always thought brown eyes resembled warmth, like the heat of whiskey sliding down your throat, but his aren’t alive—they’re an emotional vacuum.
“A background check?”
His jaw tightens. He knows. “I’ve never begrudged you your whores, Brody, but who you choose to date in an official capacity—”
I cut in. “Is none of your business.”
“—reflects back on all of us. Neglecting to inform my office was a gross oversight. Your choice was made with a serious lack of judgment, and it doesn’t surprise me.”
“A serious lack of judgment? You know nothing about Jordan!”
“I know the facts. I know you need to choose someone who fits in with our way of life. Voters won’t like seeing my son dating a foreigner. It’s not good for the polls. If you need help, contact my office and I’ll have my secretary arrange a vetted list.”
He turns to leave, dismissing me.
My temper rips apart at the seams. “Jordan is not a business decision!”
He turns back. Click, click, click, he strides toward me, teeth bared and temper flaring. “I give you the best chance at an education and what do you give me? Nothing!” he roars, the veins in his throat bulging dangerously. My back remains straight beneath his onslaught. “The least you can do, Son, is what I tell you to do!”
“Screw you, Dad.” My glare is white-hot, rage boiling over. “You’ve given me nothing that matters. Nothing!” I shout, jabbing a shaking finger at his chest. When it comes to Jordan he has no say. I don’t want him anywhere near her, tainting her with his hate. She’s everything he’s not, and that can’t change. Not ever. “And Jordan…” my bellow tapers to a hoarse whisper and my hand falls to my side “…she’s given me everything that does.”
And I did more than just throw it away. I crushed it into the ground.
Brody
Gym shoes squeak, and the sound of boxing gloves connecting with flesh echo through the large space. Loud grunts and laughter compete with thumping heavy metal music and the thick stench of sweat in the air.
Coach believes in keeping our workouts well rounded. The weekly sparring is brutal and this morning’s session couldn’t have come at a better time. My life is a cluster fuck. I’m hopeful a few sharp jabs will knock some sense in my head.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” Carter punches his boxing gloves together and comes at me, no hesitation. “Scared?”
I take a deep breath and slam the bars shut on my emotion. We’re both stripped down to gym shorts and headgear, our bodies a sweat-slicked mess. The prominent quarterback boxes balls-to-the-wall, but he hasn’t brought me down yet.
Carter swings a right hook, his big weighty bicep coming at me so fast it’s a blur. I twist out of reach and his fist connects with air.
I give him a mocking grin, displaying my bright blue mouth guard. Carter and I are of similar build, our strength a comparable match, but where he’s quicker, I have more patience. The best way for him to lose his cool is for me to throw out a few taunts.
“This isn’t shadow boxing, dude. You hit like a girl.”
“Yeah?” He taps my cheek with his glove, the move designed to irritate. It does. I jerk my head out of reach. “Well, you look tired, princess. And you hit like a jellyfish.”
My bright red boxing glove connects with his ribs. He grunts, his abs tightening to lessen the impact. “Jellyfish that, asshole.”
Wedging gloved fists between our chests, he shoves me away. I brace and he stumbles backwards. Using the time to recover, I wipe perspiration off my brow with my forearm.
/>
When Carter reaches the border of the mat, I put my head down and charge, tackling my teammate until I drive him right off the edge.
“Brody!”
I turn my head at the shout. Bam! Carter’s fist is a sledgehammer. My vision dims and pain ricochets around my head like a ping pong ball. Before I can blink, my body hits the mat and Carter’s laugh comes from somewhere very far away.
“Goddammit,” I slur, shaking my head to clear my vision. It lights upon gleaming black dress shoes first. My eyes follow them up, past the highbrow suit, to my uncle. His nostrils are flared and disappointment oozes from his every pore.
My pride smarts as I get to my feet. It’s not easy, but he doesn’t help me for which I’m grateful. Standing, I hold up a palm to Carter to take five. He shrugs and walks off the mat, swiping his water bottle off the floor.
Pulling a hand free from my boxing glove, I drag off my headgear and take out my mouth guard, giving my uncle a hard stare. “What do you want?”
He gets straight to the point. “I want to talk about your grade.”
My eyes do a quick sweep of the training facility. No one’s paying us any attention. “I’m in the middle of a boxing session. Now’s not the best time.”
“When is a good time?” he snaps. “Because I’ve given you plenty of it to come see me and you’ve pulled a disappearing act. What’s going on, Brody?”
I note the impatient glance he gives his watch. “Nothing’s going on,” I retort, which is the absolute truth. “So don’t let me waste what little time you have spare.”
“Your sarcasm is duly noted and unnecessary. I’m trying to help you here.”
Dumping my gear, I lean over and collect my towel and water bottle off the floor. “Hmmm … And last time you tried that it worked out so well.”
The End Game Page 22